


The Other

by ShaolinQueen



Category: True Detective
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Child Abuse, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Finale, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaolinQueen/pseuds/ShaolinQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s spent the last minutes unveiling a wound he’s kept guarded under dozens of bandages for years, and peeling each one of those layers off, no matter how careful he’s trying to be, still hurts like he’s roughly tearing at them instead.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know if all this makes sense, I only know two things:  
> 1) The world needs more Rust Cohle and Marty Hart: that’s my contribution;  
> 2) **karategirl448** has been, once again, **THE BEST** , and I can’t thank her enough for her amazing support and beta-work.
> 
> That being said, enjoy your reading!

It’s Monday and it’s a good day because they’re finally going to remove the stitches on Rust’s abdomen. And not even the early rise at dawn ruins the mood, not even waiting at the hospital for almost two hours, not even Rust's paleness after forty minutes of swabbing and pulling at his tender skin, not even bumping into Ted bringing Maggie to work, just as Marty and Rust are leaving the place, but stitches free, at last.

Marty’s keeping Rust’s careful pace, almost hovering and ready to lend an arm if needed, so it’s Rust’s hesitation that makes him face the parking lot, eventually spotting his ex-wife exiting Ted’s expensive car. 

They inevitably cross paths and exchange a few words, about Marty’s general health and the nature of their visit, even if Maggie probably knows it already, since they’ve become sort of celebrities at Lafayette General after the Childress case.

It’s awkward, because Marty doesn’t expect his friend to be this cold and withdrawn towards Maggie, because he has gotten used to “docile Rust”, and seeing him uncommunicative and terse is slightly destabilizing; it reminds him of their dark period.

However, this time the attitude couldn’t necessarily be considered a bad thing, mainly because it probably means that Rust hasn’t magically become docile towards the world, but towards Marty only, even if Rust declared that he used to blame his friend too, for Maggie’s actions back in 2002.

But while Marty can’t sense residual traces of that blame against his persona, it’s evident that some of those still represent a barrier between his friend and the woman in front of them.

Marty wonders if the previous encounter between Rust and Maggie, before the events in _Carcosa_ , had been as clipped as this one, because it’s clear that neither Rust or Maggie find the trend of their conversation surprising or upsetting, and Marty can’t honestly say he’s particularly sorry. It seats well with Rust’s nature and moral judgment, and because Marty is human, after all, and he likes being close to Rust, he enjoys their unexpected friendship more than he’d like to admit and his friend’s barely revealed, yet very present, display of resentment towards Maggie pushes them, Rust and Marty, closer, and it feels nice.

That’s why Marty’s mood isn’t ruined and that’s why Rust relaxes as well, following his friend's lead. They feel like everything is where it should be and it’s a sensation they’ve enjoyed too seldom not to make the most of it.

So they don’t linger and they don’t brood, they head to the diner near Marty's office for their second breakfast, just according to Marty's plans, because Rust needs an extra meal at any suitable opportunity and Marty needs the reassurance that he’s taking good care of his friend.

Which, unsurprisingly, reveals to be harder than anticipated, because Rust isn't particularly eager to consume another meal only a couple of hours after the previous.

Marty insists all the same, because he’s a man with a mission, no matter how stubborn the _mission_ is. “I'm meeting a new client at the office in an hour, stop playing with your food and eat those damn eggs already.”

It isn’t even ten in the morning, although it feels like they’ve been wandering around all day. At the reproach Rust looks up from his plate with an incredulous look that obviously has nothing to do with his friend's work schedule.

“Really, Marty?”

“Yeah, _really_ , Rust, I don't like hanging around with a toothpick."

Rust shakes his head and takes the tiniest mouthful of food, then watches his friend intently while chewing, as if eating is a favor he’s doing for Marty and not his own health.

The temptation to ask for a funnel and force the food down Rust’s throat is very strong, but Marty resigns himself to the fact that they need to take baby steps, even with Rust's nutrition plan, just like with the slow recovery of his wounds.

Nevertheless, Marty shakes his head in disbelief. "Jesus, you're insufferable. C'mon,” he continues, pushing his empty plate aside and getting ready to leave, “I’ll bring you home, you can go back to sleep, read or whatever, while I’m meeting the client.”

“I have a book with me, Marty, I promise I’m gonna stay put in a corner and won’t move a thing on your desk," Rust quips, his good mood miraculously back at the mention of abandoning half-eaten breakfasts and diner tables.

“Very funny, smartass, but if you're sure you wanna come along I could actually use a hand with my last case, it’s driving me crazy.”

“Let’s go then.”

Rust is visibly enthusiastic and Marty realizes that maybe some "case therapy" is what his friend needs more at the moment, bed rest and fresh food only postponed of a couple of hours. 

* * *

 

“Something doesn’t add up," Rust declares as soon as the client leaves his friend’s office, without lifting his head from the case folder Marty asked him to examine.

“Yeah, got the same feeling,” Marty replies, not surprised at all that Rust has been going through files _and_ listening to his conversation with Mrs. Draper the whole time.

And he’s not wrong either, because Marty’s chat with this new client, a young woman with wild eyes and jumpy manners isn't clear at all. She claimed that her ex-husband is too dangerous to be around their daughter, and wants to know what he does in his spare time. However, when Marty asked, she couldn’t list any valid reason to sustain her argument.  That certainly didn't “add up”, but she looked decent enough, plus she signed a generous down-payment check before leaving, so, in Marty’s eyes, it's definitely worth an effort.  

“Let’s check on the husband right away,” Rust suggests, closing the folder with a swift movement.

Apparently his friend agrees on taking action, but Marty hesitates. Not that he isn’t excited at the thought of involving Rust in his PI business, he’s been hinting at it for weeks, it’s just that he also thought that maybe the younger man could use a couple more days of vacation.

Rust’s movements are still too deliberate, too calculated, and Marty knows the road to his friend's recovery is long and tedious and the man has just had more than 100 stitches removed, _for Christ’s sake_. “Rust…” he starts cautiously.

“Marty, I swear, if you don’t stop with this fucking attitude right now I’m gonna jump in front of a car just to piss you off. You’re driving me crazy this morning.” Rust is already at the door, hand on the knob, looking at the other man warningly.

“Okay, Christ, let’s go, there’s no need to be so fucking prickly about it,” Marty hastily agrees, grabbing his jacket with one hand and raising the other in surrender.

“Yeah, you could have fooled me.”

* * *

 

The corpse on the living room floor is unexpected. The fact that they can walk right in and find it because the door is ajar is also slightly alarming. Marty searches the apartment wielding his gun before letting Rust in, not a matter of attitude this time, they both know and they silently agree that they can use the extra prudence.

After making sure that the place is safe enough, Marty calls the police and Rust starts to wander around, pensive and alert. The scene seems easy to read, because the man in the living room looked like the umpteenth victim of erotic asphyxiation gone wrong, the door left open probably because of the hurried escape of a panicked dominatrix.

As Rust surveys the place, pace slow and deliberate as usual, he falters on the threshold of a bedroom, a small sign at the top of the bed catching his attention among the spray of glitter and a sea of pink: _Sophia_. 

He stares at it, stares at the small bedroom, and every single expected thought crosses his mind punctual as a Swiss clock. Rust is so obvious on the particular subject that he stopped being surprised about this unusual predictability of his a long time ago.

After so many years he’s managed to smooth the rough edges off of his raw emotions, but the name still manages to upset him, and he always dwells on whether mentioning it aloud when he talks about his daughter. It still upsets him because he inevitably thinks about how they tainted it in the end, he and Claire, after mulling over it for months before choosing it, after using it properly for much too little time, eventually covering it with sobs, screams and despair when they needed it pure the most.

Sometimes it’s really difficult for Rust to remember the moments they did justice to it, with love and joy and every single particle of adoration even a mere name deserves, while, on the contrary, he doesn’t even have to focus to recall every time it has been uttered in a nightmare, or crying, sobbing, arguing and amidst all the wrong possible feelings.    

Rust stands there thinking about _a_ name and he can distantly hear Marty informing the police about the scene they have just discovered, but it’s another noise that snaps him out of his stupor. He has to step forward and strain to hear before he’s able to catch it again, though.

He stiffly kneels beside the bed to investigate, mentally cursing every inch of sewn skin, and peers under. He isn’t surprised to find a pair of eyes staring back at him after all. They seem to belong to the owner of the room and her breath hitches again and she covers her face, frozen with fear as fresh tears run through her tiny fingers.

Painful names or not, Rust knows that, when it comes to children, he’s completely useless, prone to panic, even clumsy. He loses all his skills and capabilities when kids are physically involved; he knows he’s scarred for life, he knows it hasn’t always been this way, but he’s known himself since his daughter's death and he knows he should probably wait for the mother of the kid, social services and whoever the police are going to alert.

“Sophia?”

He is indeed shocked to hear his own voice utter that name, blanking out every single thought he was formulating just seconds before, which of course hurts his throat and constricts his chest as expected, but also catches the little girl’s attention, who peeps through her fingers.

Both terrified and encouraged by the reaction he has managed to elicit, Rust repeats it, the sound less wavering this time, as he tries to muster all the comfort he has been able to provide so many times in different interrogation rooms, as if he is not dealing with his kryptonite, as if he’s really feeling it. And it’s not difficult to pretend on the latter, in fact it’s quite the opposite, because it’s not like he lost his capability to feel empathy towards kids after his daughter’s death, it just became too painful and overwhelming. Also, as much as it always sounds stupid every time he thinks about it, it still feels like a betrayal, like he’s cheating, like no other kid should have the most precious gift Rust’s able to offer, which was meant to be for his Sophia only.

But he’s the one who’s addressed this Sophia here, _twice_ ; he’s put himself in this situation, and he sure as hell isn’t going to chicken out now. The little girl has dropped her small hands from her damp face and she’s regarding him cautiously, faintly curious.

“You _are_ Sophia, right? I’m Rust,“ he resumes, at last. “I love this game, I used to play it with my daughter. Tell you a secret though, she wasn’t very good at it, I used to always find her. The bed was her favorite hiding place, must be because she’s a Sophia too, you know the two of you have the same name? That’s why I was able to find you. It’s an important name. All Sophias are very brave, did you know that?”

Rust keeps talking, regretting this choice more and more by the second. He must be in the middle of some crazy epiphany about denominations, because he hasn’t felt so _rusty_ since probably never, but at the last inquiry the little girl shakes her head lightly, and at least she’s listening, hesitantly interacting now.  

“Well, it’s important that you know, and try to keep that in mind too, no Sophia should forget how brave she can be,” Rust suggests softly, shifting slightly on his right elbow and knees.

As if emitting each word isn’t emotionally painful enough, the curved position is killing him and he really needs to assume a normal pose quickly. “Sophia,” he addresses the child once more, “I have to ask you a favor: I need to straighten up because I’m old, can you see my grey hair from there? But I’d also like to keep talking to you. Would _you_ like to come out?”      

Rust knows he’s pushing his luck with that proposal, although he’s not sure that’s the exact definition of his current status. He’s spent the last minutes unveiling a wound he’s kept guarded under dozens of bandages for years, and peeling each one of those layers off, no matter how careful he’s trying to be, still hurts like he’s roughly tearing at them instead.

But Sophia exits her refuge eventually, and she’s staring at him with teary, expectant eyes, which damages him more than any word he has just uttered, and as the last bandage slowly sloughs off, Rust realizes that his wound is still dripping fresh blood after all, copiously even. So he turns away, he sits back on his heels looking for a blanket, a stuffed animal, a doll, anything that could divert her attention from him, anything that could replace him as the object of expected comfort and trust.

Rust has almost grabbed a stuffed bear when she suddenly anchors her little body to his, and he almost loses his balance, stitches free-abdomen protests vividly, his mind goes into overdrive.

There are so many details about this current picture that are wrong that he can’t really deal with them all at once: a little girl is holding him, a little girl is expecting something from him, a little girl has trusted him and this little girl isn’t his daughter, even if they share the same name, name which he has just said aloud more times in the last few minutes than he has in the last twenty years, and then he had certainly not been addressing or mentioning a living being. 

It’s so enormously wrong, but she’s gripping his shirt and pressing her face to his chest and when he tries to put her on the bed she squeezes the fabric even more, so he stands up with the burden of a trembling child in his arms and the one of a ghost in his heart and it isn’t easy at all, weak and sore as he is, but they finally end up on the mattress and that’s how Marty finds them, shock all over his face.

They look at each other and there are so many things they want to say; Rust feels like he should explain himself, not even sure why, and Marty feels like asking a thousand questions: why is there a little girl in the house where they’ve just found a naked corpse, probably victim of kinky sex, isn’t at the top of the list.

The air is heavy, Rust can touch the apprehension and Marty is simply feeling it, they both share the sensation that Rust’s holding a scorching bundle and Marty wants him to let go, not to get burnt, and Rust wants the same, because he feels like he’s blistering already.   

“She was under the bed, I think she saw everything,” the younger man says instead. They still don’t know what “everything” exactly implies though, but it certainly isn’t something a four year old should see.

And apparently the trend is to ignore the elephant in the room, so Marty follows Rust’s lead, because it’s much easier at the moment. “The police are on their way, I also called her mother, I suppose,” he adds pointing at the little girl.

Sophia is trembling again, Rust can feel her accelerated heartbeat through his shirt and at this point he’s too deep in the mess to care that Marty is there to see, he simply has to stroke her head again, whispering reassuringly in her ear, _it’s okay, his name is Marty, he’s a friend and he’s going to help_.

Marty feels like claws are gnawing at his chest, because it’s wrong, what he’s seeing is _dead_ wrong, and he knows Rust is going to pay the consequences of this encounter because, _Christ_ , he has seen the sign too and he knows that the little girl’s got even the same name.

And in the back of his mind he feels sorry for the child as well, _of fucking course_ , because she deserves every bit of comfort and every single caress she’s receiving but not from Rust, not him, not his broken friend, not now, because there will be nightmares for him, _more nightmares_ , and memories and regret again for having woken up from the coma.

Rust is avoiding his gaze and Marty stares at the scene dumbly. Not for long, fortunately, because, _thank God_ ,the police arrive, so he exits the room to greet them. Marty explains everything, from Mrs. Draper’s visit to his office only a few hours before, to their grim discovery of her ex-husband. He tells them about the girl under the bed and his partner’s suspicions, and he tells that he contacted the mother, who apparently, during their meeting, forgot to mention that the little girl was at her father’s apartment.

Two officers and Marty enter the small bedroom then; Rust is still sitting on the bed, Sophia on his lap, and Marty hopes she won’t panic again, but she’s not as startled as before.  She’s holding a stuffed bear with one hand, while the other is still clutched firmly at Rust’s chest.

And his friend looks like he doesn’t even know how he could have possibly ended up like this, but Marty has some clues. He thinks that Audrey and Maisie would have probably adored Rust back in ‘95, if only his partner hadn’t been so damn broken and terrified to even come close to them, so careful in avoiding any touch or contact.

Because this little girl here has been around Rust for less than 30 minutes, yet Marty is sure that any person entering that room now could legitimately think that the younger man is the most important person of her world. And Marty is amazed at how good Rust is with _this_ Sophia, and it badly hurts him to think that his friend, in all probability, was even tons better with _his own_. 

But back to the current picture, Marty knows that Sophia’s attachment is due also to the kid’s shock. Still, he has seen kids in shock before, what he hasn’t seen is Rust Cohle calming them like it’s a piece of cake, what he has never seen is a kid clinging to Rust Cohle’s shirt and him letting it happen. Marty remembers that time that his friend had been the only witness to Maisie’s fall from the swing, he remembers his utter hopelessness when he had carried her inside their house, like he was holding something on fire, something forbidden, _and fuck_ , he wouldn’t be surprised if Rust had gotten drunk again that night in ’97, just because he had held for two minutes something he had sworn he wouldn’t ever hold again.

So there's no doubt that Marty’s list of more than valid motivations to leave the house as soon as possible is very long and reasonable, and there’s no doubt they should leave the little girl in the arms of her mother, where she belongs, and forget the bloody case the second they leave the place.

And Marty hears that voice, at last, and _thank fucking Christ_ the woman is there and he looks at Rust, who has visibly relaxed, as if, together with Marty, he’s realizing that his agony is coming to an end.

Rust rises from the bed then, Sophia still in his arms, and Marty sees a tightness in his friend’s features he didn’t notice before and asks himself how can he have possibly forgotten the fact that, mental turmoil or not, Rust should have definitely avoided this kind of exertion, today of all days.

But before Marty’s able to fret more, the mother is finally in the room, _about fucking time_ he thinks again, and he watches as the woman hastily approaches her daughter, he watches Rust moving forward and handing over his little burden, then Marty watches this same little burden starting to cry and hide on his friend’s neck.   

The woman isn’t fazed and calls her daughter, stretching her arms towards the child, but Sophia screams and flails, calling his friend’s name, and she’s holding onto Rust’s shirt for dear life and the poor kid seems more scared of her mother than the woman wanted them to believe she is of her ex-husband.

And of course Rust senses everything, and he’s not so prone to hand the little girl to her mother anymore, not when Sophia seems more and more terrified by the second. He tries to pacify her again, but it seems a lost cause at the moment.

Marty is honestly at a loss now and also highly alarmed because the kid’s still thrashing about in Rust’s arms and he swears he heard his friend’s breath hitch more than once. He knows they need to calm her down before she seriously aggravates Rust’s tender wound.

Marty tries to pick her up but Sophia still doesn’t let go; Rust backs away from his friend, shaking his head, which leaves Marty with the only option of steering the mother outside, even if Mrs. Draper acts appalled and outraged by the PI’s decision.

Not that Marty cares, especially since the kid slowly stops thrashing and squirming and he watches with relief as Rust gingerly sits on her bed again, grabbing another stuffed animal and giving it to Sophia as reward, while whispering again in her ear.

Crisis placated, Marty can only think about leaving the place, he wants Rust out of here, _everybody be damned_ , because it’s too fucking soon, because it’s a nightmare, it’s Rust’s nightmare and his friend doesn’t deserve that, not after all the shit they’ve been through and they still have to face some nights.

The police start questioning the mother, they’ve called social services after all but Marty and Rust know very well it takes ages before they show up.

Marty sits on the bed next to Rust and they don’t say a word. Sophia falls asleep on Rust’s chest, clutching the stuffed raccoon he gave to her and that strip of shirt she hasn’t released since jumping on Rust’s lap.

She looks peaceful and there’s no point in dwelling on the hell she’s about to face, with a crazy, probably abusive, mother and a father whose death doesn’t appear so obvious anymore. There’s nothing they can do, and Rust knows it when he almost mechanically untangles tiny fingers from his shirt, when he gently lays the sleeping child on the soft mattress and when he covers her with the comforter, together with the stuffed toy. His thumb brushes the soft skin of a cheek for one last time and he really hopes she’ll be brave, after all, then the contact is finally interrupted.

Marty is already standing, waiting and eyeing his friend closely. Rust feels drained and lightheaded and he slightly sways when he stands up. Marty is there though and he grips his arm firmly, steadying him. The touch is familiar, _this_ touch is reassuring and it doesn’t scald Rust, it doesn’t consume him and it’s pleasantly warm. Rust is not in agony anymore and Marty doesn’t let go, he guides his friend out of that room and out of that house.

They step outside on the small lawn across the entrance, and the afternoon sun hits them harsh and hot. Marty squints his eyes and covers them with a hand. Rust falls on his knees like a ragdoll and throws up.

“Shit.”

Marty says it, Rust just thinks it, as shocked as his friend about the sudden reaction of his own body. But then he’s finished before Rust can even register what’s actually wrong with him, and _fucking nerves_ is the only answer. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he croaks annoyed.

Marty has regained hold of his arm and doesn’t need to hear that twice, he helps his friend to his feet and towards the car. “I’m taking you back to the hospital,” he informs Rust out of courtesy when they’re both sitting on their seats, no room for objections.

“I know.”

And Marty drives in silence, while Rust watches outside the window.

* * *

 

They have to wait, again, and by the time a doctor gets to him, Rust’s head is splitting in two and the dull pain in his abdomen only feels distant, an alien sensation in the back of his dazed mind.

Too many questions and pokes later the verdict is a bruised wound that needs three or four new stitches where it has re-opened, a shot for the bad case of migraine and the suggestion to spend the night, just in case and mainly because of his recent medical history.      

Rust has silently agreed with Marty’s official stance on this visit only at the prospect of obtaining some drugs and sleeping pills - _because it’s that or getting fucking drunk_. The shot is given immediately and the new stitches are there in a couple of minutes, so he declines the offer but accept the prescription, buttons his shirt over the brand new bandage and leaves the examination room.  

Marty is there, a quiet constant at Rust’s side as they get the medicines and finally exit the fucking hospital, for the second time that day.

They drive in silence, again, and Marty stops to get some take-out because _so much for making Rust follow a regular nutrition plan, they’ve missed lunch and it’s dinner time already_.

And they get home, at last, it’s dark outside and they’ve been away for more than 14 hours, gone through some major shit and by now they’re functioning on pure willpower.

After a quick stop to the bathroom to clean up at least his face and mouth, Rust makes a beeline for the bed, because he knows that wherever he’s going to sit he’s not getting up anytime soon.

Marty bustles about in the kitchen for a while, then appears in the bedroom with food, a bottle of water and a couple of pills. He sets everything except the pills on the nightstand, at Rust’s arm’s reach.

“Eat.”

Rust has just gotten rid of his trousers and shirt in favor of a pair of sweatpants and Marty, who’s now eyeing the pristine bandage on his belly with a strange look, has just managed to sound pissed muttering one single word.

Rust isn’t sure he knows why, he just wants to lie down, swallow the only thing Marty didn’t put on the nightstand and sleep for a week. But Marty has been quiet for what feels like hours and he looks like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t say something and maybe Rust still has the strength to hear another lecture about how he needs to eat to regain the strength Marty draws every time he starts sermonizing him.

And Rust thinks that maybe the shot they gave him has made him loopier than he realized, but he forces himself to address his friend all the same.

“What’s wrong?” 

But no, _he_ was _wrong_ , he hasn’t the strength, because it’s like breaking a damn dyke and Marty is so taken aback by the question that he sputters unintelligibly for a couple of seconds before starting to emit coherent sentences, which of course at the beginning are a string of insults.

“Unfucking believable… Unfuckin’-What’s wrong. _What’s wrong_. You’re a fucking masochist moronic idiot, that’s what’s wrong, worse than that fucking asshole we left there in that fucking house, and I’m so fucking tired of this shit and don’t you fucking dare to say a goddamn word because I’m gonna duct tape your mouth if I need to and why the fuck did you do that? Huh? You got yourself sick, for Christ’s sake, you collapsed on a goddamn lawn, you pushed yourself to one those fucking migraines that prevent you from even thinking straight and your healing wound has been literally kicked open-“

“She was just a child, Marty, she couldn’t kn-” Rust’s tone is low, warning and severe but Marty doesn’t give a shit and interrupts him again.

“Fuck you, Rust, FUCK YOU, that _has_ stopped you before and you could have just fucking called me, for fuck’s sake, I was in the fucking next room!"

For some reason Rust doesn’t get mad, he doesn’t bite back, he watches Marty’s pace up and down like a beast in a cage and he listens to his flow of words and eventually gets it. He raises his hand asking for the floor then and that finally stops Marty’s outburst, causing a brief burst of hysterical laughter instead.

Marty goes quiet then, covers his eyes in disbelief with a shaking hand and flips Rust off with the other.

“Marty,” Rust addresses his friend, ignoring the gesture and trying to gather his thoughts for a moment before starting his little explanation. “I don’t know what gave you this recent impression that I’m fixable, that _you_ have to fix me. I reckon you’re the one who once told me that ship has sailed. Yeah, yeah,” Rust retorts to the unspoken protest, waving his hand, then continues, “I think it’s clear by now that I haven’t the constitution for doing anything but keeping on living and maybe it was about fucking time I tried to face this particular aspect of my reality, which was honestly starting to get ridiculous. And maybe I did, after all these bloody years no less, because I knew I wasn’t returning to an empty house later, because I knew you would have been here, bugging me about missing lunch instead of letting me drink myself into a stupor like I’ve done before for less than all the shit that happened today, but goddamn, Marty, all this it’s not worth having a heart attack over, I’m certainly not, and _fuck you_ , man, for forcing me to say all this sentimental shit aloud, but you really looked on the verge of having one a few moments ago and it seemed like the right thing to do.”

Unsurprisingly Marty doesn’t expect the heartfelt speech and stands there, gaping, speechless, so Rust takes advantage of his friend’s shock to put an end to the discussion.

“Good, now that you’ve finally calmed the fuck down, would you mind bringing your abysmal dinner in here so we can eat and then go to sleep? Those pills are fucking inviting and I could use a nap.”

Marty obeys without saying a word, greeting the opportunity to recover for a second.

He returns a moment later with his plate, regular breathing, normal heartbeat, and they do eat in silence, but it feels good now, it’s not heavy nor oppressing, just quiet. Rust is as comfortable as he could get, leaning on two pillows, and Marty is sitting on the edge of the bed, biting into his sandwich with gusto.

“Marty.”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry I almost threw up on your shoes.”

 


End file.
